Emelie Watkins ’20
LGM Returning to the conversations between my Colossal hands, I notice their florid cheeks Caught in an argument with each other. El Greco’s painting in the corner, perhaps, Is a tragic end to The Left Grotesque Moth’s career. His home was thrown together with Midas’ touch. And as my hands argued, their words melted Into a ghostly murmur. Reduced to echolalia, their fracas Combusted into A cloud of disappointing Powder. I pictured The Left Grotesque Moth’s features. True to his name, his serpent eyes glittered In my memories in a hideous fashion. He Reminded me of the moon’s pasquinade On Hideousy, quite a gorgeous speech. My brain Faltered to be positively languid amongst the party folk. I looked to the moon. A featured art piece. His mouth sucked in the nearest star, and after A further breathy hauteur, he released a thick Veil of wealth among the sky, even though It glittered enough as it was. I turned my Attention to my hands, still caught in a fractious Debacle, and slowly drifted again to my Uncle’s caravansary. The memory of our travels was dipped in a green sauce, that I can’t place. The color so unique, that it doesn’t match the others.
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